They were
composed in response to various challenges that ran the gamut from Dylan lyrics
to Shakespeare, crossovers to AUs, dialogue only to haikus, music lyrics, episode
titles, and anything else you can imagine. (Both communities were blessed with
very creative moderators.)They
are mostly Alex/Olivia in nature, but feature other pairings as well (including
Abbie/Olivia).

1.
First Date

As first
dates went, it wasn’t disastrously bad—Alex had practically an
encyclopedia of those, from A (Assholes) to V (Vomiting on Self and Waiter);
spilt wine, awkward silences, heated law debates were nothing. In the cab she
was drunk enough to get angry and defensive: You think I’m a bitch. You
think I’m cold. You think I only care about my career. She’d thought Olivia had only
kissed her to shut her up. The next morning, cloaked in hangover,
she woke to church bells, deliciously aware of Olivia’s face pressed between
her shoulder blades, and that voice—your apartment is freezing—a sweet reverberation
sweeping through Alex’s chest, gently piercing her heart truer than any arrow.

2.
Fifth Wheel

When the
SVU detectives finally invited Casey along on their regular Friday-night
drinkfest, the hapless ADA thought her luck was changing.

Still,
she bitched about work.

“You
think your job’s hard?” Olivia countered. She hiked up her sweater. “Sumbitch
nailed with a switchblade last year.”

Casey saw
not the thin, pearly scar but a magnificent, toned torso and a black bra that
hinted at bountiful treasure.

Elliot
yanked down the sweater like a window shade. “You’re shut off.” He steered his
partner away.

Casey
watched them leave.

Munch
clapped an affectionate hand upon her shoulder. “Same time, next week?” he
slurred.

“Oh yeah,”
Casey said breathlessly.

3. The
Hokey-Pokey

“So
he cornered me after the reception—“

“Didja
kick him in the balls?”

“—and
it’s time for another episode of ‘Olivia Benson: Pacifist Policewoman.’ Anyway,
he’s looming over me, reeking of bourbon….‘Alexandruuuuh,’ he says in that
fucking Hee-Haw accent, ‘Ah hear y’all are doin’ the hokey-pokey with one of
your detectives.’”

“He called it that?”

Immersed
in giggling, they failed to notice Arthur standing in the doorway.

“Gotta
work on that accent a bit more, Alexandra,” he drawled, and then
left.

“Just my
luck,” Alex sighed.

“At least
he didn’t catch us doing the hokey-pokey.”

“You’re
not going to start calling it that, are you?”

4.
Honey White

It
was nothing she expected and everything she wanted: The genteel prison of
Alex’s hands pinning her wrists, milky skin luminous as a star, the silky
slither of muscles in her throat—peristalsis was the term for it (thank
you, Warner)—as
she came. She dominated, she yielded. She said you are so beautiful and fuck me harder in the span of one dizzying
breath. She clawed Olivia’s back, then kissed those bloodied, burning
marks—a sweet sanctification. When Olivia lay over the knifepoint of
exhaustion, broken and anointed with the musk of her scent, she said, We’re
not done yet.
Olivia knew then that this longing, which she had sought to cure in Alex's bed,
would never abate.

5.
Einstein in the Mosh Pit

The
incongruity of Warner in a cop bar—she never went out for drinks with
them—was akin to Einstein in a mosh pit. “Do you know there’s a direct
correlation between over consumption of beer and gout?”

“Uh,
no.” Olivia watched Elliot shoulder his way to the bar for another pitcher.

Melinda
shifted, their knees bumped, seemingly innocently. Under the table, a warm hand
wrapped over hers. A flush of heat spilled across the nape of Olivia’s neck.
“Have I mentioned that I’m separated from my
husband?”

“I
can’t promise you anything.”

“And
even if you did,” Melinda replied, “I wouldn’t believe you.”

6.
Positively 4th Street

Midnight.
Tepid coffee, frost on the windshield, boredom.

He
watches the shadows along her profile. He knows her better than anyone. Even
the woman who loved her, who probably still loves her, who will probably always
love her. He spins his wedding ring—loosened on his finger by the bitter
cold—as if it will somehow weave a powerful spell to protect him from his
own heart. He can be her brother, her partner, her best friend.
Beyond that?

Olivia
looks at him. “What?”

The
suspect leaves his apartment, saunters down 4th Street.

“Nothing.”
Elliot starts the car.

7.
Tangled Up in Blue

“I’m
off!” Jauntily, Casey tossed the long blue scarf over her
shoulder.

Mary
frowned. “I’m not sure about that outfit.”

“Blue
and green go together! They’re in the same color family!”

And
the fuchsia?
Arguing was pointless, particularly before the first mimosa of the day.
Shielding her eyes from Casey’s lime green and blue ensemble, Mary merely
nodded. She was pouring the champagne when the door slammed, followed by a thud
and a loud, strangled cry. A square of blue was caught in the
door.

Mary
finished the drink, and then opened the door. Casey fell at her feet, gasping,
rubbing her neck.

“Have
you ever heard of Isadora Duncan, dear?”

8.
Love Minus Zero

My
love she speaks like silence.

There
was the look. Then she was gone.

Now,
Alex is not Alex anymore. For this elusive silver moment—blades of light
entrancing the chrome of the van, painkillers stealing through her
veins—it does not matter.

She
knows there's no success like failure—and that failure’s no success at
all.

The
van gallops, clumsy over a dark bridge, a bucking bronco that nearly throws an
agent from a plush seat.

In
ceremonies of the horsemen

These
are the true makers of laws—men with guns. Not her. How she ever believed
otherwise is now a mystery.

Even
the pawn must hold a grudge.

9.
Photograph

“Pardon
me.” The dog-walker handed her a photograph. “This fell out of your
book.”

Bermuda.
Sun, wine, the breeze from the balcony that pressed your bangs against your
forehead. Watching you watch me with those dark eyes. Your hands, twitching in
sleep. Teeth flashing bold as a blade as you bit into a mango, the juice
dribbling upon your shirt. Your embarrassment as I kissed you then and there,
in public, caring only for the finest drops secreted away within your
mouth—the smallest of gifts are always worth every foolish risk.

The
photo’s edge cleaved Alex’s thumb. “Thanks,” she murmured.

10.
The Shrine

Casey
stirred her rum and coke. “I mean, I really wanna ask her out…”

Mary
sighed. If she couldn’t get Casey to shut up about Olivia Benson, her chances
of getting laid that night would be nil. “Honey, give up. She has an Alex Cabot
shrine in her bedroom.”

11.
The First Day of the Rest of Your Life (Law & Order, original flavor)

Serena
didn’t know if it was the sunny, warm weather or the facial she got at the
Oasis Day Spa yesterday, but when she awoke at 6 am, she felt imbued with a
profound sense of purpose.

Today
was the first day of the rest of her life. Or something like
that.

She
arrived at work 2 hours earlier, anticipating the empty streets and barebones
office staff, and literally kicked open the door to Jack’s office.
“Jack, I’m totally prepared for the Kaufman case today. I feel good. I’m on
top of everything. In fact, from here on out, I’m going to be the best damn ADA
this office has ever seen.” Serena paused. “Why’re you wearing a flannel shirt
and jeans?”

Jack
scratched his unshaven cheek. “Serena.”

“What?”

“It’s
Sunday.”

12.
Haute Cuisine

A
bet was a bet, and she had lost.

Alex
insisted on a certain amount of protocol, however. So the skinny waitress with
pink barrettes and an Atari t-shirt brought the can of Spam to their table and
opened it with great solemnity, as if it were a bottle of the finest burgundy.
Aristocratic nostrils quivering, Alex sniffed the proffered tin. She hummed
throatily.

Olivia
squirmed. She loved that noise.

“Grilled?”
Alex asked.

The
girl nodded. “With apple chutney and asparagus tips.”

“Fabulous.”

Olivia
smirked. “I’ll believe it when you eat it.”

“Didn’t
you say that on our first date?”

13.
Lapsus Linguae

The
pillow is a sachet of perfume, wine, lust. She buries her face in
it. On the edge of the bed Alex sits, still dressed, still
triumphant, still deliciously drunk. “As I was rudely…when I was sayingly
interrupted.…” Her skirt rustles.

Olivia
risks a glance back, sees only the white collar, flaring like a dove’s wing,
against the black jacket.

“Don’t
look. Listen: In vino veritas.” Alex’s voice gathers new clarity. She drags the smooth
edge of her glasses along a bare thigh. “Corpus.” Her hand follows. “In
flagrante delicto.”
Her mouth is the final instrument in this symphony, this celebration.

Olivia
stiffens, cries out. Her body is the language that Alex speaks, sings, chants
with even more passionate reverence than the Latin she so adores.

For
the hundredth time Olivia stared at the piece of paper proclaiming her marriage
to one Casey Novak. Stupid extradition hearing! Stupid jello shots! As with the
previous 99 times, her skull throbbed and her hangover cackled madly, not
unlike Bette Davis in Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?

Casey
tossed underwear into a valise. “Don’t worry. We’ll get it annulled tomorrow.”
She looked at Olivia. “Oh. Next time you sleep with someone, try to
remember—calling out the name of your dead girlfriend is not a turn-on.”

“Slip
of the tongue,” Olivia muttered.

Casey
narrowed her eyes. “Like that tongue is capable of making a mistake.”

15.
Deadman’s Tales (Law & Order: CI, Eames/Goren)

She
breathes a little smoke into his face. Smoking is her God. She started the
minute he disappeared, promising that she’d stop when he returned.
He came back. Rather, someone looking like him came back. She
didn’t stop.

“Where’s
the body?” she asks gently.

While
she worships her God, he believes in the religion of snapped necks. “Crashing
somewhere in New Guinea,” he whispers, eyes closed.

Earlier
she had watched him nap on her couch. His sleep resembles the texture of
rust—ancient, hinting at former glories. In the past he was always taking
potshots at his colleagues while finding the murderers. Now he prowls the
wasteland for bodies of his own creation. "You got no bones, no proof.”

“Why
the hell did you do it, Bobby?” Alex’s voice is thick with grief.

“I
was—tired. There is a new war everyday—inside.” He points at his
chest. "It’s melted down to small black amulets. To nothing."

16.
When the Rodeo Came to Town

It
wasn’t Halloween and it wasn’t Gay Pride Day. But damned if there wasn’t a
cowgirl in her bar, asking for Jim Beam, neat, in husky-honeyed tones as sweet
as the bourbon itself.

“So,”
Olivia said. “You’re with the circus.”

“Yes,
ma’am. First time in New York.” The cowgirl downed the shot and grinned as wide
as Texas.

“What
do cowgirls do for fun?”

“Rope
tricks.” Another ridiculously huge smile.

“I
see.”

“No,
you don’t.” The cowgirl leaned across the bar and whispered low. “But I can
show you, ma’am, if you think you may be interested.”

“Why
yes, Cowgirl Carmichael,” Olivia purred, “I think I might be.”

17.
Feed Your Head

“I’m
worried about her.” Elliot passed the joint back to George.

“Why?”

“She’s
been acting weird since we hired Alex—“

“Who?”

“The
new nanny. Anyway, she’s like, all uptight and nervous, spending all her time
on the firing range…”

“You
really should
let her shoot in the backyard.”

“After
I got out of the Peace Corps and we got married, I was like, ‘Liv, no guns in the
house, I don’t care if you were a Marine.’”

“Dude,
listen. I’m your best friend and your dope dealer. I’ve been telling you for
years…Olivia is, like, repressed. The solution is obvious.”

“Yeah,
that is about the most sincere smirk you’ve had yet.” Olivia pressed the nanny
against the counter. “You like pissing me off, don’t you?”

“Yes,
Mrs. Stabler.”

“You
keep it up, you might end up back at Mrs. Petrovsky’s boarding house. Now that you wouldn’t like, would
you?”

“Oh
no, Mrs. Stabler.”

“Didn’t
think so.”

“Um,
Mrs. Stabler?”

“Mmpf?”

“He
doesn’t like it if we start without him.”

“Too
fucking bad. This is what he gets for finishing off the stash this morning.”

19.
The Morning After

Great
sex. Really great sex. Elliot’s eyes opened. But not with my wife.

Daylight
scorched his retinas. He couldn’t bear to look at the figure beside him. So
who the fuck did I fuck? He smirked. Cabot. We were flirting all night. Then he frowned. But she was
also flirting with Liv. And Fin. And Munch. And the caterer. And the
councilman’s wife. And—

A quick
glance revealed a dark head upon a pillow. It must be Olivia. Shit. This
screws up everything…but wait. She left before me….

More
amazed at Alex’s awestruck reverence for the creature than the beast itself,
Olivia only nodded. “Yep.”

“Damn
it, they won’t believe us. That stupid sheep ate my camera.”

“They’ll
believe.”

“How—“

Olivia
whipped out her Glock. A single shot took Nessie down.

Smoke
curled through the air.

“Shit.”
Olivia holstered her gun.

Alex
glared at her. “What?”

“I
dunno how I’m going to sneak it through customs.”

21.
Twins

“Guess
you had a good weekend.” Cragen tossed The New York Post on Olivia’s desk.

Olivia
had long wondered if she would be the eventual cause of the Captain’s renewed
drinking. The paper was open to Page Six; words didn’t need to accompany the
grainy photo, but nonetheless did: “The resounding success of the Olson Twins’
remake of Chekhov’s Three Sisters, entitled Three Sisters Minus One! had the girls in a celebratory
mood Saturday night at CroBar in Chelsea, where they became extremely cozy with a female member of New
York’s Finest.”

On
the last day of her first life she awoke early, anticipating the church bells
that reminded her of the morning after their first night together and thinking
about the moss gathered upon that memory—the hard hungry ache of her
heart, the way Olivia asked her to stay last night and her idiotically defiant
refusal, the men who wanted her dead—yet despite it all she kept going,
because keeping one step ahead was the key, and so for the last time she walked
out of her apartment, moving with an assured grace that she would never again
possess.

23.
Sedan

“Can’t
believe we have to interview that junkie again,” Fin muttered, stalking toward
the sedan.

Munch
followed his partner. “At least it’ll be an entertaining afternoon.” As he
opened the passenger door, his shaded, suspicious eyes focused on a gentleman
who suspiciously resembled Jimmy Hoffa. He’s alive! I knew it!

Thus
his distraction when two scantily clad women tumbled out of the car and onto
the street.

While
he never pegged Olivia for a boring, white bikini brief type, his suspicions
about Alex’s padded bra were, alas, sadly confirmed.

“Do
people have sex in bed anymore?” Munch mused aloud.

24.
Nice Girls Finish Last

Patience
was a usually masochist’s game. This time it wrought rewards: Alex on her
doorstep, surrendering. Her hands skimmed fabric so smooth it could melt
through her fingers. “Nice dress.”

“Nice,
huh?” The dress rippled like the sea and she plundered the ivory skin beneath:
thigh, hip, and the soft nexus that made Alex arch, catlike, offering the
wanton bareness of her throat, releasing a plume of a dizzying, lavish
scent.

“But
you know—“ Her lips were now on Olivia’s ear, sampling the intricacies of
sweet skin. “I don’t like ‘nice.’”

25.
Hannah and Her Sisters

“All
right. Proceed.”

“Why
do you have to write it down?”

“I
need evidence.”

“This
isn’t fair.”

“You
started it. So let’s go. After Hannah the Bar Slut there was—?”

“Jennifer.”

“And
she—?”

“Worked
with Hannah.”

“Ah-hah.
Bar Slut Number 2.”

“Well,
it was their dad’s bar…”

“Wait.
This Jennifer was Hannah’s sister?”

“So
what?”

“You’re
skeevy.”

“Do
you even know what that word means?”

“No—but
it doesn’t sound good, does it? Continue.”

“Let’s
see…Marianne?“

“What
about the Professor? Or Mrs. Howell?”

“Very
funny. No, after Jennifer was…Miriam.”

“Where’d
you meet her?”

“Uh,
same place.”

“Oh,
please don’t tell me—“

“Can
we stop this now?”

26.
The Wife

The
ceiling fan spun lazily above the stifling squad room. It offered little relief
from either the heat or the relentless bickering of Fin and Munch. Christ,
when will they stop?
Olivia slumped over her desk.

“I
told you I was sorry!” Munch shouted. “What more do you want from
me?”

“I’d
like your balls in a blender, but ain’t life a bitch!” Fin stormed out of the
room.

Olivia
exchanged a sympathetic look with her equally miserable partner.

After
falling upon her bony ass for the twelfth time in fifteen minutes, Casey cried,
“I’ll never master walking in heels!”

Mary
took a sip from her flask and knelt down. “There, there, poppet.” She cupped
Casey’s chin. “We’ll do it. We got through law school, remember? Now stand up.”

Like a
newborn colt on acid, Casey wobbled to her feet. Again Mary began to pile the
skull-crushing trio atop Casey’s head: Ulysses, War and Peace, and—Bill Clinton’s memoir.

Casey
groaned. “Why do there have to be so many?”

“Would
you rather read them, dear?”

“Are
you kidding
me?”

29.
Oliver Twist

The
beautiful, tuxedoed man gathered her hand in his own. In a gallant show of old
world manners, he brushed his Ganymede lips against her knuckles. “Mrs. Cabot,”
he murmured. “Alex has told me so much about you. May I get you another
martini?”

She
nodded. He disappeared. She turned to her daughter. “What’s his name again,
dear?”

For one
night, Serena sloughed off the humiliation of failure, seeking comfort in what
she knew: The bar—her bar—and its denizens. There she would find
acceptance in a beer on the house, a gentle hand on her shoulder, a sympathetic
wince. And later she would attain the state of forgetting while pinned under
the body of a beautiful yet familiar stranger, whose hands and mouth traversed
her body with astonishing confidence.

And
yet, something niggled. “Wait,” Serena gasped.

The
groping stopped.

“Is
this because I was an ADA?”

Olivia
blinked drunkenly. “Whaddya mean, ‘was’?”

31.
Long Island, 1977

The ice
sculptures were heinous.

Liz
Donnelly scowled, uncertain with whom she should be annoyed: Mary Clark, for
inviting her to this fiasco, or herself, for masochistically accepting.

Lena
Petrovsky, her colleague from the DA’s office, sidled up to her. “You’ve got
guts, coming to your ex’s wedding.”

Liz
shook her head. “I’m an idiot.”

“Cheer
up.” Lena opened her purse: Nestled between birth control pills and breath
mints was a tiny blowtorch. “What do you say we do a little work on these
atrocities?”

“God,
Lena, how in the hell did you get that?”

“Remember:
I dated the Galloping Gourmet.”

“Was
this before or after Warren Beatty?”

“Frankly,
I can’t recall anymore. Now just relax and cover me. This fucking dolphin is
getting on my nerves.”

32.
The Luck of the Sidekick (Law & Order: CI)

“She
lets him in, they argue in the foyer, he knocks the drink out of her
hand”—here Eames gestures at the stain on the Oriental rug—“she
runs up the stairs”—here Eames dashes maniacally up the stairs—“to
get away from him, you can see where her heel snagged on the runner at the top,
she runs into the room, see that smudge on the door, she was eating a Godiva
truffle, gets the gun. First shot hits the Hockney lithograph; the second
ricochets off the bronze urn and strikes the victim right in the carotid
artery. He falls down the step and breaks his neck.”

Triumphantly,
Eames folds her arms.

Goren
blinks. He hates it when she wears the lucky green shirt. “Um. Okay.”

33.
Absinthe (Law & Order: CI)

She
wasn’t the tallest, the prettiest, the smartest, or the richest woman in the
bar. Still, from that moment when, at the tender age of six, her father had
anointed her with three simple, fervent words—you are special—she swaggered as if she
were all these things and more.

Working
with Bobby, she needed to believe that more than ever. But apparently, others
believed it too. He’s got the brains, but you’ve got the balls, Deakins always said.

A
woman, bold, handsome, and smiling, approached her. “Wanna dance?”

Eames
grinned. The fiery absinthe touched her lips. “Wait your turn.”

34.
The Revisionist

He’s
divorced, she’s divorced. They laugh about it. It’s all they can do.

In the
reflection of her glasses—still the same style, he smiles—he sees
the glinting gray at his temple, and when she takes them off to wipe away tears
he finally sees evidence of her age: Fine lines gathered around blue eyes, the
toll of secret mourning.

“They
never told me how she died.”

He
remembers Olivia’s note. Don’t tell her. Please.

And so
Elliot begins the lie, the one that’s taken nearly 20 years to hone. “How
else?” he begins softly. “In the line of duty…”

35.
The Realization

There’s
nothing like a hostage situation involving a face-tattooed 300-pound
schizophrenic serial rapist (with a penchant for pyromania) and the person with
whom you’ve been having a secret torrid affair to make you realize you’re
terribly in love with said person (not the tattooed rapist) despite said
person’s incredibly tiresome habits, among them chewing ice cubes, carrying on
one-sided, obscenity-laced dialogues with FOX News commentators, and passing
out on the couch after drinking three-fourths of a bottle of cabernet sauvignon
supposedly bought for you.

So when
it’s all over, you’ll say that clichéd (yet no less meaningless) phrase to her.
You’ll even kiss her. In front of a local news camera crew.

And you
won’t care.

36.
The Cello

“I
can’t do it.” Melinda Warner’s confession was all the more startling for its
expression in her usual, calmly confident manner.

The
professor, however, was not surprised to hear this admission from his lovely,
at times too-serious, star protégé. “You put a lot on your
plate.”

“I
know.”

“You
thought you could handle it.”

Melinda
sighed.

“My
dear,” he said, “it’s asking a bit much of even the best and brightest to
juggle being a medical examiner, a marine biologist, a concert cellist, and a
part-time superhero.”

Wistfully
she stared out the window. “I’m going to miss the cello.”

37.
Arrested Development

The
drunken broad in the passenger seat of the BMW aligned herself for a perfect
view of New York’s Finest Breasts, which hovered tantalizingly close to her
through the open window. She squinted at the badge that adorned one of these
magnificent peaks. “So, Officer…Bensonhurst. Arrest me and molest me!”

Olivia
merely rolled her eyes. Once her partner was satisfied with the driver’s
sobriety, the two officers sent the vehicle on its way.

As the
BMW sailed down Broadway, the stone-cold-sober driver, one Francis Woodward
III, glared at his miscreant friend and fellow law student. “Hitting on a cop.
Pretty fucking brilliant, Alex.”

“Yeah,”
Alex slurred. “I am pretty fuckingly brilliant.”

38.
Russian Love Poem

The
suspect reminded Munch of prototypical Eurotrash: unshaven, bleary-eyed,
reeking of clove cigarettes, open shirt collar hinting at alarming hirsuteness,
and spewing Russian poetry at the nearest female, in this case Olivia, who eyed
him with the languid hostility of a housebound Siamese.

Outside
the interrogation room, Casey awaited them. “Well?”

“He
looks good for it,” Munch said. “If we can poke holes in that
alibi….”

Munch
removed his glasses, melodramatically clapping a hand over his eyes.

“Don’t
even try to tell her,” sighed Olivia.

Casey
frowned. “What?”

39.
Gravity’s Consequences

At
midnight there was no one to kiss. Elliot had been preemptive; he’d given her a
brotherly buss upon the cheek an hour before, before the music erupted out of
the cheap tinny speakers, before streamers slithered upon the air.

She
hated parties. Minutes after midnight she slinked upstairs to be alone, hand
curled tightly around a tumbler of chilled gin. In an empty bedroom full of
coats she opened a window. The night flooded in. She leaned forward.

Let
me fall out of the window with confetti in my hair. With a drunken ballerina’s grace
she swayed, waiting for gravity’s consequences.

40.
Romeo Void

Perhaps
in another context, Olivia would have recognized the thrill of the hunt:
Closely following on Alex’s heels, she turned the corner with long strides,
nostrils flaring, heart slamming, blood chanting, aware only of her own beauty
blossoming within the desperately powerful presence of lust.

They
burst through the bathroom door like rowdies in a saloon and within seconds she
pinned Alex against the ancient tiles, elegant wrists bound in her grasp.
“You’re driving me crazy.”

“I
know.” Alex whispered. “I like you. But—“

Olivia
awaited rejection.

Instead,
Alex breathed an embrace: “I might like you better if we slept together.”

41.
The Pig

“It’s a
good deal,” she advised her client. She sat in the chaise lounge, kicked off
her flip-flops, popped opened another Snapple. “You should take
it.”

“The
pig is mine!”

“It’s a
nice pig. But not worth the fight.”

“It’s
the principle of the matter! I will fight this all the way to Pago Pago if I
must!”

She
shrugged. “If you insist.”

“You
are a strange woman. I’ve never understood why someone like you is
here—practicing law in the middle of nowhere.”

Gasping,
Olivia sat up in bed. Third time this week. It’s gotta mean something. She
rubbed her aching neck. Don’t be stupid, Benson. You know what it means.

She
nudged the body on her right. “I’m going out.”

A
muffled rejoinder: “What for?”

“Calzone
from Vinny’s. Want one?”

Mary-Kate
jumped. “Like, hello! I just got out of rehab!”

“Will
you bitches puh-lease shut up?” Ashley piped up from the bed’s other side.
“I’m, like, trying to sleep!”

45.
The Rise and Fall of the City of Monogamy

He
thinks if he stands still nothing will happen. Few dare to broach his space,
even fewer receive an invitation. But she dares. She is in flight across the
room, a distant winged shadow moving ever closer, until she is there, facing
him, pressed into him as if they could merge, as if they could fuck and burn
right through the meaningless barrier of clothing. Her boldness is legendary—it’s
what gets him about her. But it is her unexpected gentleness—her hands
cupping his face, her mouth drinking, with every delectable inhalation, from
his kiss—that unravels him.

46.
Your Own Personal Jesus

Since
Kathy left, Elliot sought a predictable solace. But the church that had always
quietly awed him—with its incense, its rituals, the delicate rush of
benediction, the softly uttered Latin—didn’t help.

He felt
guilty seeking a new church, but God is God, right?

The
change exhilarated him—at first. God may be God, but pain and loss were
just as immutable.

He
still went. As did Olivia, who had so fervently converted him, and who now
slept through the sermon.

But
even over the relentlessly throbbing techno, he swore he could hear the gentle
scrape of the twenty dragged along the stripper’s abs, and he thanked God he
could feel anything, even the coarsest desire.

47.
Practical

The
baby blue Tiffany box was a ruse. “It’s—“ Alex began dismally.

“—a
Swiss army knife,” Olivia finished proudly. “It’s got a pair of
scissors—remember when you had a string hanging off your skirt and I had
to bite it off—?”

“Mmm.
You know how to ruin a girl’s fun.”

“—and
it’s got a toothpick, so next time you’re in court you won’t have arugula stuck
in your teeth—“

“I did
not lose a case because of lettuce. How stupid do you think people are? Don’t
answer that.”

“And
there’s tweezers—“

“Oh,
look. A tiny knife for stabbing my lover.”

“That’s
not funny.”

48.
Interview

She
fixed her stockings, smoothed her skirt, hoped her post-coital blush was gone,
and casually limped out of the stall.

The
woman was still there, meticulously washing her hands. Only minutes before,
those hands had conjured bliss from Alex’s body. As the stranger reached for
paper towels, Alex caught the glint of gunmetal holstered upon a belt.

How
in the hell did I miss that?

A
sheepish grin. “Don’t worry. I’m a cop.” A name, BENSON, was visible on the
shield flashed at Alex.

Having
interviewed with the Manhattan DA’s office that afternoon, she took this, with
characteristically brazen disregard, as a good sign.

49.
Margaritaville

She
wasn’t sure which one she liked best: The brunette or the brunette.

“You
weren’t really a lawyer in New York, were you?” one cooed.

Passing
a fresh martini, the other one sensually brushed against her. “I believe
it—you look the part.”

The
former Alex Cabot took the proffered drink, basking in the glow of more
flirtatious attentions than she’d received in eons. She smiled, lounging
seductively in the deck chair, the sun warming her face.

Until a
certain boss rather cruelly kicked said chair. “Table Seven—margarita
pitcher. Get your ass behind that bar and start mixin’ now!”

50.
Reunion

It
wasn’t supposed to happen. Which, of course, meant that it did.

It
wasn’t supposed to be anything but a futile attempt at reclamation. It wasn’t
supposed to be anything but Alex hearing her real name, spoken tremulously,
bathed in sex, where words break apart like glass, shattering and shimmering
upon impact.

Afterward,
Olivia lay entombed in the slab-like hotel bed while Alex traced the lines of
her cheekbones; that single gesture unraveled a flimsy heart sorely unprepared
for another loss.

“So.”
Triumphant but tender, Alex smiled in the dark.

“Hmmm?”

“What
the hell have you done to your hair?”

51.
The Cat

You’ve
ruined me for other women, she’d said to Olivia that night.

Hell-bent
on not repeating the past, she'd completely avoided what passed as “the gay
scene” in the area and carefully picked a decent man. That she failed to notice
how dark bangs boyishly fell across his brow just so, his gentle brown eyes,
the sensual curve of his lips, and the dazzlingly rare smiles that occasionally
broke through his sweetly solemn demeanor, told Alex--tragically after the
fact--that she’d been ruined for the entire species.

The van
tore through the dark night. I’m so getting a cat this time, she thought grimly.

52.
The West Palm Beach Ladies

“She’s
alive!” Liz Donnelly shut off the cell phone and cackled joyfully at the sun.
“Alive!”

Mary
Clark looked up from a copy of Vanity Fair. “Who?”

“Cabot!”

Mary
took this in. “You mean Benson finally found a way to clone her?”

“No,
smart ass, she’s been in Witness Protection the entire time.”

Mary
sipped her Bahama Mama and thought, with fleeting sadness, of Casey. “Poor
poppet,” she sighed.

Liz
rubbed her hands together with glee. “I can’t wait to tell Lena. Where is she?”

“On the
beach, of course.”

“That’s
odd. I didn’t see her down there.”

“The nude beach, dear.”

53.
The West Hollywood Woman

“Have
you ever been in love? There are many kinds of love. There is the tepid love
that pours forth bitter and twisted, the spittle of a dying beached whale upon
the swollen sands of lust. Then there is the love pulled out of you like a
tampon that’s been in too long, a bloody chopped-off finger wriggling inside
you—organic? Not organic? No one knows. But it points at you, red and
accusing. My heart, that’s what it is.”

for
reclamation of both her lost queendom and her butchy, sulky Penelope.

55.
Exile

Snow
and loneliness,

summer’s
ripening wheat, and

the
heart’s bitter tang.

56.
Morning

Good
morning, sunshine!

The gun
and the coffee are

rivals
for her mouth.

57.
The Boxer

A
savior of bleakness, the bare light bulb presided over the basement.

Stabler
flexed his arms. Smooth, undulating muscles indicated that he was, if
completely numb, at least alive. Life was movement. But he was going nowhere:
His marriage long over, his badge long gone, he was distilled into the
embodiment of rage.

Illegal
boxing paid the bills; he was getting too old for the racket, but didn’t care.
When he needed extra, though, there was this.

His
hands wrapped around the victim’s neck. “Mr. Profaci wants his money.”

He
hesitated only at the remembrance of gently touching someone.

58.
The Interrogators

“You
might be interested to know,” Munch said, dropping a folder on the table, “that
your partner is looking at twelve to twenty upstate—if he’s lucky.”

An
elegant leg drapes over a chair arm. Cigarette smokes scrolls above her blonde
head, like a secret song crooning to Olivia and no one else: You’re mine. Like the coolest martini in the
house, she sweats sophistication. Like the husky-sweet rumble from an alto sax
at three in the morning, she performs the most delicate damage, burrowing
insidiously inside Olivia’s heart.

She
rises from the ashen dusk, walks across the room. “You’ll take care of it,
won’t you?”

Her
mouth is on Olivia’s. The aftertaste is bitter and blistering, sex and blood
upon the lips.

And as
any of his exes would confirm, John Munch was certainly a leg man. “I’m not
usually charmed by snitches,” Munch said, “but there is something about you.”

“Aside
from my legs, Detective?” Liz arched an eyebrow.

Caught,
Munch smiled. “You’re very observant.”

“And
you’re very obvious.”

“What
made you change your mind about coming forward? You and Cabot were once
so—close.”

Liz
tapped a cigarillo against the table. “I had a friend in college who cultivated
a fun, and occasionally insulting, parlor game. He liked to sum up people with
titles from English plays.” The spark of a lit match hovered before her tired
face; she thanked him and continued. “He was particularly fond of tragedies,
Jacobean dramas—“

Munch
waited patiently. Every criminal was a storyteller, and he a rapt audience.

“—you
seem like a well-read man, Detective.” Her eyes glinted.

“You’re
very flattering. The operative word here is seem, Ms. Donnelly. But please tell
me what this particular summation of Alexandra Cabot would be.”

Dragonesque,
Liz spewed smoke. “’Tis a pity she’s a whore.”

61.
The Last Kiss

She
refused to believe they were coming for her. No, Alex thought, they were coming
for the woman who sat sprawled, cavalierly dying, in the lush Italianate
leather chair behind her desk. She rather hoped that Olivia would not bleed
excessively; she was quite fond of that chair. But a bullet in the stomach was
always a messy thing.

In the
darkened office the siren’s rhythmic red painted a metronome along the walls.

For
whom the siren wails? It wails for thee. Alex thought of saying it aloud;
Olivia, an English professor’s daughter, would surely appreciate the allusion.

But
Alex felt strangely guilty. Yes, she was responsible for that slug in Olivia’s
gut, but it had to be done. Donnelly’s testimony had afforded Olivia the luxury
of a deal—and freedom.

“You
know something?” Alex could feel her throat tightening. Had she been a good
woman, she would have welcomed this, the irritating stranglehold of love. ”I
really will miss you when you’re gone.”

Leaning
over, she ensnared Olivia one final time with the feverish bounty of her kiss.

No
sooner had their lips parted then a gun barrel, thickly menacing, pressed into
her pale, lovely throat.

“Well,
baby,” Olivia rasped, “I think I’d like to take you with me. You know why?”

Was
it really so long ago? And here, in this remote Warwickshire
town?

The
Lotus Elan coursed smoothly through the countryside, while the wind tormented
Emma Peel’s dark hair in a fashion similar to certain thoughts rampaging
through her mind: Boarding school.

Frightful
cliché, Steed had
said when she told him.

It gets
worse, she had replied.

Walks
in the woods, the saturating scents of untamed violets and marigolds. An
unforgettable day exploring castle ruins. And the first day they met: A
magnificent stranger laying siege to her rooms, immaculate in fencing whites,
brandishing an epée, blonde hair cascading with the calculated removal of her
mask: Alexandra Cabot.

64.
Blackmail

“Well,
Counselor,” Olivia drawled, “the DNA tests are conclusive.”

Alex
remained unperturbed. “Don’t you feel bad, wasting Warner’s time like this?”

“Goes
in my blackmail box. Next to the photo of Elliot sporting a mullet—which
is pretty funny. But the fact that I am now in possession of a Che Guevara
t-shirt once worn by Alex Cabot is priceless.”

65.
Pavlov’s Detective

The
first time had been funny. Maybe even a little sexy. The second time
bewildering. The third, awkward. And now? She wasn’t sure if the blush creeping
across Elliot’s face was a result of anger, desire, or both.

“You
can’t do that any more,” he growled.

Olivia
sighed. “I’m sorry.”

Elliot
grew contrite. “It’s not like I don’t like it.” He chuckled. “I mean, you’re
good.”

Now she
blushed. “Thanks. But—I just can’t help it. I see the body bag—it
just triggers it.”

He
shook his head. “Liv, you gotta stop making out with Warner in the morgue.”